What Plants Teach Us About Love

Valentine’s Day tends to narrow love into something tidy, one person, one gesture, one version of care, but plants don’t love that way, and neither do we, at least not really, this week love feels wider, less performative, more observant, the kind that notices how care moves quietly through living things.

Plants have a way of teaching love without naming it.

Did you know peppermint plants tend to wilt dramatically when they need water, leaves drooping almost theatrically, making sure everyone notices, only to bounce back quickly once they’re cared for, and honestly, if nature tells us it’s okay to be a little dramatic when we need support, who are we to argue, it’s not weakness, it’s communication, a reminder that showing need is sometimes the most honest form of love, and that connection often begins the moment someone else is allowed to respond.

Lavender teaches something different. It grows best in rocky, unforgiving soil, producing its most concentrated aroma under pressure, what looks delicate from a distance is actually built for endurance, tough seasons don’t stop it from growing, they shape it, and this is where love gets interesting, relationships don’t have to be easy for love to bloom, sometimes the situation is hard, sometimes the ground is rough, and yet love is exactly what makes us stronger, deeper, more ourselves.

Then there are roots, unseen but essential. Dandelion reminds us that what holds something steady often lives underground, doing quiet work long before a bloom ever appears, the most lasting forms of love aren’t always the ones on display, they don’t need an audience, they stay grounded, they hold when conditions change, and sometimes the most private relationships are just as strong, if not stronger, than the flashy ones we scroll past every day.

And finally, there is community. In nature, plants do not survive alone, through complex underground networks they share nutrients, warn one another of threats, and support weaker neighbors, love at its healthiest works the same way, it feeds more than one person, it makes room, and often the most reliable form of love is family, whether that’s the one you’re born into or the one you choose, the people who show up, keep you grounded, and lovingly set you straight when you need it most.

When you step back, it’s hard not to notice a pattern forming.

The peppermint shows us what happens when need is expressed honestly and met without judgment, care offered and returned in real time. Lavender reminds us that love doesn’t require ease to thrive, that pressure can deepen what already exists rather than destroy it. Roots teach us that the strongest connections often grow quietly, away from performance, anchored in consistency rather than display. And the way plants support one another beneath the surface shows us that love, at its healthiest, is never solitary, it’s shared, distributed, and sustaining.

It’s only after noticing all of this that the language starts to make sense.

These are the Four Pillars of Love we’ve been exploring this month. Redamancy, the relief of care being returned. Sonder, the awareness that every person carries a life as complex and layered as your own. Eros, the instinct to attach, to bond, to keep choosing connection. And the oceanic feeling, the softening of edges where love becomes something larger than the self.

Plants don’t name these things, but they live them effortlessly. They respond. They endure. They stay rooted. They make room for others. And in doing so, they remind us that love isn’t a single gesture or moment, it’s a system, one built slowly, thoughtfully, and with attention to what exists beyond ourselves.

This Valentine’s Day, we’re grateful for the plants that model that kind of love, and for the humans who try to practice it every day, roots deep, hearts open.